


To Seduce A Holmes

by psychicdreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Romance, Sherlock making plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1825480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg has been in love with Mycroft for awhile, but he could use a little help in getting what he wants and he's just desperate enough to ask Sherlock for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Соблазнить Холмса](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600084) by [AnniePhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnniePhoenix/pseuds/AnniePhoenix)



> High rating for part 2

The room was quiet after he’d asked his request and he shifted a bit uncomfortably under the unblinking stare of the consulting detective. John seemed frozen, hand lifting his cup halfway to his mouth before he’d stopped and just looked at Greg. If it hadn’t been so nerve wracking, he would have said it was comical, but there was really nothing funny about this. He’d lived with this too long, if he didn’t at least _try_ to do something about it, he’d go insane.

“…You want me to help you woo Mycroft.”

“I wouldn’t say _woo_ , exactly,” Greg muttered, running his damp palms on his thighs.

“Mycroft.”

“Yes.”

“As in Mycroft.”

“As in your brother, Mycroft ‘Minor-position-in-the-British-Government’ Holmes, yes.”

“Why?”

Greg gave him a look before glancing at John for help. He wasn’t even sure why Sherlock was asking. Why else would he be asking this if he wasn’t interested in Mycroft? What part of that didn’t the normally genius man not understand? John seemed to struggle with it, but did break his paralysis enough to speak. He set down his cup, saying, “Because he likes Mycroft, Sherlock. He wants to date him and…things like that.”

Something seemed to click in Sherlock’s head because he paled, a cringe crossed his face, and then his whole body seemed to shudder in what Greg assumed was revulsion. “John, do not _ever_ insinuate Mycroft and sex again. Ever. You just killed parts of my brain.”

Greg frowned. “Hey!”

“It’s _Mycroft_! Sex. _Mycroft_! Imagining it is the stuff of my nightmares! How can you?”

“I don’t know, I think sex with Mycroft sounds _fantastic_ , so why don’t you help me get some?” he spat, annoyed at Sherlock’s comments.

Sherlock moaned in horror and actually got up from his chair to go over to John’s and sat on the arm as far as he could get away from Greg, ignoring the doctor’s surprised look at his sudden new chair accessory. “In answer to your request: no.”

“Sherlock, no one alive knows your brother better than you! I’m not going to even get a chance without your help.”

At the stubborn look on the man’s face, he felt his hope destroyed. There was no way he could get anywhere without Sherlock. He had no direct line to Mycroft and had to go through his PA every time and he sincerely doubted the man would rearrange his insanely busy schedule if he just asked, not for a mere copper to have a coffee with. _Maybe_ if he was with the government or had more influence, but he was just a Detective Inspector…

John seemed to sense his disappointment and rallied behind him. “Come on, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave John a horrified and confused look, as if stunned that John wouldn’t agree with him. “What?”

“There’s no harm in it. At least help him get one date with Mycroft and then let him take care of the rest, right? You won’t have to finish anything. Or think of it like a case. The most intriguing element is Mycroft because I don’t think any of us here have any idea how he’d react, right?”

The consulting detective seemed to hesitate and Greg flashed a thankful look at John, who smirked. They both knew that if Sherlock agreed to help, there was no way that he would _stop_ until Mycroft and Greg were together. There was just no way that Sherlock could leave something unfinished, like getting him one date and that was it. “There is some appeal to manipulating Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, staring off into space. There was a smaller shudder, as if at some thought he’d had, before he locked eyes with Greg’s again. “If I do this, you have to do _exactly_ as I say no matter what.”

While Greg wasn’t enthused about that, he nodded in agreement. “Where do we start?”

“First off, you have to understand a few things about Mycroft. Don’t expect to pay for anything, he loves shoving how much money he has in everyone’s faces and he will predominantly pick the establishments you will frequent. Even more annoyingly, he’ll probably order for you. Be prepared for his overbearing presence, he does so love to think he’s omniscient. Also, don’t assume you can keep this hidden from him for long. Mycroft is nothing if not observant.”

Did Sherlock think he had just met Mycroft yesterday? He had known the man for years, but he so rarely saw him and talked to him. He hadn’t even gotten close to the door to put his foot in it, but that didn’t mean he knew nothing at all. Still, he didn’t correct Sherlock because he didn’t want to antagonize him and cause him to rethink his agreement.

“We need to arrange a meeting with you and Mycroft and force you to spend time with each other.” Sherlock pressed his lips together before he nodded to himself. “You’ll have to be left in the dark for most of the plans because you’re not a good enough liar to fool Mycroft.”

Oh, he did not like the sound of that. “Sherlock—”

“I’ll keep him in line,” John interrupted, seeing his worried look. “Don’t worry.”

John, keep Sherlock in line. That idea was laughable, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he stood up, straightened his suit and nodded at the consulting detective. “Sherlock, thank you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t thank me yet, Lestrade. When you do have Mycroft in love with you, you really might end up cursing me instead. You _really_ don’t know what you’re getting into.”

Greg knew that Sherlock was very rarely wrong and he did know his brother more than anyone else… The fact that Sherlock was still willing to give him out told him something and maybe he was right, that he shouldn’t get too close, like a fly to a spider. He considered it for all of five seconds and decided that even if he might be walking toward a web that wouldn’t let him go, he’d do it willingly because there was something about Mycroft Holmes that drew Greg in and made him fall in love.

“No, I don’t,” he said after a minute, “but I won’t change my mind.” Sherlock’s eyebrow rose and he gave Greg a considering look, as if deciding that he was made of sterner stuff than he thought. Curiosity prompted him to ask, “You’re okay with this? With the possibility that I could be dating your brother?”

Greg knew as well as John did that despite the invectives he heaped on him that Sherlock did love his brother. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t get so emotional or angry about it. The consulting detective pursed his lips and grudgingly admitted, “I suppose if Mycroft _has_ to… _date_ someone, you’re the best choice. You’d understand his schedule and his priorities and I _suppose_ you’re not half-bad to look at. You’re easy to manipulate, which Mycroft would find reassuring, and you’re loyal to a fault, so at least you wouldn’t deliberately hurt him.”

“…Thanks for that?” Was that supposed to be a compliment of some kind?

“Go away, Lestrade. Now. I have to clear my brain of the thought of Mycroft having sex.”

He couldn’t help but laugh a bit and closed the door behind him.

-0-

Nothing happened for the first few days and the only contact from Sherlock had been a single text later that first day that said to continue as he had been for now. If he hadn’t known that Sherlock never backed away from a challenge then he would have worried the man had changed his mind, but he should have known better. There was no way that Sherlock wouldn’t continue to take advantage of his chance to manipulate his older and slightly smarter brother.

With a particularly savage murder on his hands, though, Greg hadn’t had a lot of time to give much thought to his feelings for Mycroft or what might happen. He had buried his attention in phone dumps of the victim even past lunch and his coffee had gone cold. His office was quiet so the familiar chime of a text sounded terribly loud in his ears. Frowning, he grabbed his mobile.

_Stuck in a warehouse with a bomb. Can’t turn it off. Sven minutes left. John’s freaking out. Call Mycroft. Terrorists. SH._

Something clenched in his gut. Sherlock had said he’d been working on a big case, so he had assumed any plans they’d been talking about had been put on hold. Of course none other than the dynamic duo had gotten themselves in a jam. As he yanked on his jacket, another text came giving him the address. Of course it was something to do with terrorists. Did Sherlock honestly just stumble by happenstance into the really big things or was it intentional?

“Hey, where are you going?” Donovan demanded as she saw him almost jog out of his office.

He was already speed dialing the number he had on his phone for Sherlock’s brother. “Got to pop out for a bit.”

“But—”

He didn’t hear her as he was out the door. The phone rang only once before it was picked up. “Mycroft Holmes’ PA.”

“It’s Lestrade, I need to talk to Mycroft about his brother.”

“Please hold.”

It was about a few seconds at most before he heard the smooth, velvety tones of the elder Holmes’ voice. It always caused a shiver to go down his spine before he could help it. “What’s going on now?”

“Sherlock’s case seems to have involved terrorists,” he explained, yanking the car door open and getting in. “Now he and John are stuck and they have about seven minutes before a bomb goes off. I was going to call in bomb disposal, but Sherlock said to call you instead. Got any idea why?”

“No, frankly,” Mycroft said and he could almost hear the frown in his voice. “What is the address? I’ll meet you there.”

He pulled the mobile from his ear to forward the two texts he’d received. “I’m about two minutes away.”

“I’ll be there, Detective Inspector.”

The line went dead and Greg focused entirely on getting there in time, yet even in two minutes a sleek black car had already beat him to it. Had Mycroft already been going somewhere? How had he gotten there so quickly? “You call anybody in?”

“If there are still terrorists in the surrounding area, calling in a tactical team will only set them off. Unless you’re sure they aren’t in the building and have found them?”

Greg frowned and shook his head. He looked at the door, noting the lock had been broken and pushed it open cautiously. “Sherlock? John?” he called, but only the silence met him.

Mycroft followed him in, but his PA didn’t. He turned around and asked, “Isn’t she coming?”

“No. Someone has to remain outside to handle directing authorities if necessary.”

“Shouldn’t that be you then?” A devastating ginger eyebrow rose at him as if asking him silently ‘Do you think I wouldn’t come in if my brother was in danger?’ “…Right then.”

They went further into the small and empty office building, but he didn’t see a single sign of John or Sherlock, or even a bomb. He tried the light switch after a minute and found that it wasn’t working. He was about to turn to talk to Mycroft when he felt something hard and heavy slam into the back of his neck. He stumbled forward, falling to the floor, as his world went pitch black.

He woke with a pained moan, rubbing the back of his head. He was on his back now, on a small sofa instead of the floor. “…Mycroft?” he grunted, struggling to sit up and tried to ignore the bout of nausea. It was still dark and he couldn’t see very well.

“I’m here, Detective Inspector.”

“What happened?”

“It appears as if we were knocked out some time ago. It’s now evening. I came to around an hour ago.”

“Bollocks,” he cursed, reaching for phone.

“You won’t find your mobile. Both our wallets and phones are missing. I’m assuming they were confiscated by whoever attacked us.”

He peered into the darkness near his right and thought he saw Mycroft leaning back in a desk chair as if it were a throne. “What are we still doing here? Shouldn’t your PA have done something after the first hour?”

“Yes. I’m not entirely sure why she hasn’t. She should have called someone within the first half an hour of no contact unless…”

“Unless she wasn’t able to,” he finished grimly. “If whoever attacked us got to her first.”

“Correct. There is no electricity in this building so we can’t use their phones or computers, the doors are being blocked from the outside, so they won’t open, and the windows have been sealed up, also from the outside.”

“Why didn’t they kill us? Why just knock us out? Where are Sherlock and John?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said grimly. “They are not behaving in a way I’m used to people like this doing. It would be far easier to kill us and the fact that they haven’t could mean that they have a larger and more complex plan. As for the brainless pair, it’s possible that either they found a way out shortly before we arrived or they were kidnapped.”

This was demented! It was as if someone had thought of all the ways out of the building and blocked them off to make sure they didn’t…leave… The thought blindsided him. Sherlock and John were gone. The building was literally sealed from the outside to stop them from leaving. _Sherlock_ had texted him deliberately.

It couldn’t be that this was set up by Sherlock. That he would deliberately fake a bomb threat to get Greg and Mycroft in a room together for a few hours in the most clichéd of circumstances. He wouldn’t. …No, he most definitely _would_. There was no way, though, that he could tell any of this to Mycroft without revealing the entire conversation that he’d had with Sherlock and his reasons behind it. He groaned, falling back to rest on the sofa that Mycroft must have moved him to when he’d come to.

He heard the rustle of clothing and felt a hand touch his shoulder. “Are you all right, Detective Inspector?”

“Call me Greg, please. I think we’ve moved past ‘Detective Inspector’ a few years ago.”

There was a pause before he heard the scraping of a chair near the sofa and the man sat down next to the sofa. “Very well. Gregory. How bad is it?”

How bad was what? Oh, his head. He had mistaken Greg’s groan of consternation for pain. “Now that you mention it, it’s throbbing, thanks,” he said truthfully. Whoever hit him had done a damn good job. He tried to think back to that moment and if he’d had to bet money, he’d swear that the one who hit him so expertly was John. He would swear that he felt that slightly shorter man behind him, now that he was paying attention to the small details in his memory.

“My apologies that I don’t have anything to give you for the pain. It should dissipate soon.”

He smiled a little at the gentleman that Mycroft was. Here he was, knocked out same as Greg had been, and it was hardly his fault, but he was apologizing for not having painkillers. “Don’t suppose there’s anything to drink in here? I could use a coffee.”

“Unfortunately no.” Mycroft sighed, seemingly in longing. “Coffee sounds like a marvelous idea.”

“You probably know all the best coffee joints in town.”

“Do I?”

“With the amount of work you do, I bet you drink a ton of it.”

There was a soft chuckle. “Not as much as you think, but I do know of an excellent café that serves the best coffee I have ever tasted.”

“You’ll have to take me there sometime.”

“…Yes, I think I will.”

Why the pause? He swore he had felt those blue eyes rake over his form and he attempted to suppress a shiver at the thought. What did that mean? Did that mean Mycroft was interested even a little? “So…” He struggled to find a topic, knowing this could be the only decent time he got to talk to the man. “You got here even before me.”

“I was already heading in this direction, it took very little to get here.”

“Well glad your PA was there next to you then.”

With his eyes adjusted now to the dark, he could see a bit better and noted Mycroft tilted his head at him. “You are always welcome to call me personally.”

“I don’t have your number.”

This seemed to honestly stump the man. “You don’t?”

“No, just hers apparently.”

“I’m honestly surprised. I thought you would have asked Sherlock for it.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small card, slipping it into Greg’s hand. Was it his imagination that it seemed like his fingers lingered on his? “I must offer my sincere apologies then, Gregory. I had no idea the reason you never called me directly over the years was that you didn’t have my number.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “It’s okay, Mycroft. I’ve got it now.”

“No, I’m afraid it’s not okay. After all you have done over the years, it is an incredible oversight not to have given you the courtesy of being able to contact me directly.”

“Why is it such a big deal to you?” he asked curiously.

There was a pause, as if Mycroft was trying to put together what he wanted to say in the right way. “You have done more for my brother and I than anyone else I have ever known. Your stalwart friendship has helped Sherlock in ways greater than even I could attempt and you have risked your job, and your life, more than once for the both of us. It is inexcusable that if you, in return, needed my help and you were unable to get in contact with me immediately. It is also quite rude, considering that I have had your personal number for years and the courtesy was not shared.”

“…This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Greg smiled and sat up a bit, bracing his shoulders against the arm of the sofa as he waited until Sherlock saw fit to let them out. “It’s okay, Mycroft. Really. I’m not upset,” he said, adding to himself ‘not anymore’ now that he knew it wasn’t an intentional slight. He reached out to touch the man’s lower arm in reassurance, fully expecting him to pull away…but he didn’t. Instead he found himself admiring the material the expensive suit was made from, running his fingers idly over it.

“…Thank you,” Mycroft said at last.

“For?”

“Your understanding of the matter.”

Greg just grinned in delight. “It’s not like it was any great hardship, Mycroft,” he said as he shoved the small business card in his pocket.

Before he could say anything more, or Mycroft, there was a thump at the door and it was thrown open. He looked over Mycroft’s shoulder, whose back was to the entrance of the building, and spotted Anthea. Behind her was Sherlock and John, both appearing grim-faced, but Greg knew for a fact that that was an act. It was too coincidental, there was no way anyone would convince him that this hadn’t been a set up by the younger Holmes brother.

“It is about time, Anthea,” Mycroft told her and stood up, fixing out the creases in his suit.

“I’m sorry sir, I was attacked and knocked out.” There did seem to be a bruise around her eye to prove her story and Greg looked deliberately at the two men in the doorway. They _appeared_ innocent, but he doubted it. “I found your mobiles and wallets in a nearby skip.”

Greg happily took possession of his phone again and noticed quite a few missed calls from Donovan. As he heard Mycroft questioning Sherlock about the bomb and where it was and what was going on, he met John’s eyes. The man had lost the battle and he had to turn away. There was a twinkle in his brown gaze and Greg couldn’t help but smile back.

-0-

“Well, isn’t he stubborn,” Sherlock muttered and Lestrade looked up from his notes over to the side of the crime scene to Mycroft.

“Sherlock, this really isn’t the time for this.” The consulting detective raised his eyebrow. “The Prime Minister’s _son_ has been kidnapped!”

“Boring. Mycroft’s resistance is much more interesting.”

Resistance. Sherlock seemed to be of the opinion that Mycroft was somehow resisting feelings he most certainly had, but Greg didn’t really see it. Not once in the past month since they’d had that conversation had Mycroft even acknowledged that they’d had a tentative coffee break in the future. They had, in fact, only spoke _once_ since then and that was over the phone.

“Sherlock—”

“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupted, coming up to them with a bit of a urgency in his step, “what have you found?”

“Kidnapper came in through the window, but there’s no sign of a struggle, so either he was asleep when he grabbed the boy or he used some kind of drug to knock him out. We’re talking to others in the neighborhood, but so far no one saw anything.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, looking at the house and the open window where the kidnapper had come through. He even went over to it, peering inside, and a frown appeared on his face. “This makes very little sense,” he commented at whatever detail that Greg had clearly missed.

“Ransom maybe?”

“It’s been two hours, we should have heard from the kidnappers by now if they wished to ransom the boy. Something is…wrong here.” He looked suspiciously around the block, even landing on Anthea, who seemed surprisingly calm and almost laidback about the whole situation.

The statesman’s phone rang, pulling him from whatever contemplation he had, and Greg buried himself in work, ignoring Sherlock’s muttered comments. John wasn’t there, something he began to notice only peripherally at first until after the boy had been missing for four hours. Sherlock had remained at his side the entire time despite showing no interest in the case. Finally it settled in his gut and he grabbed at the man’s arm, pulling him away from everyone. “Sherlock, what do you know?”

“Why do you assume I know anything?”

“Because you’re sticking to me like a burr and I haven’t seen John yet. You two are joined at the bloody hip, for god’s sake, so _what’s going on_?” A budding horror went through him. “You _didn’t_ …”

“Didn’t what?”

“ _Tell me_ you didn’t kidnap the _Prime Minister’s son_ to help me _get a date with Mycroft_!”

“Fine, I won’t tell you.”

He groaned deeply and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock apparently honestly thought there was _nothing wrong_ with this. How could he be so stupid as to ask this man to help him with anything, when he apparently thought it was fine to kidnap governmental officials children! “You do realize kidnapping is against the law, right?!”

“Relax, Lestrade, he came willingly. I explained the situation and he agreed to help. He seemed particularly enthused at having some fun making his parents worry about him. Besides, I bribed him with some candy.” Sherlock shrugged, still eying his brother nearby, and began to mutter almost to himself, “He’s being exceedingly stubborn, preferring to ignore what he’s feeling. Perhaps something more _direct_ is going to be necessary…”

“ _Sherlock_!”

“Don’t worry so much, it’s annoying. John is with him.”

“Sherlock, I swear to god—”

“I even left you _clues_ , Lestrade! Find them, lead Mycroft and his peons right to the boy, and earn yourself some praise if you must. You’ll at least impress Mycroft.”

Now he was really, _really_ regretting his decision of asking _Sherlock_ for help. “I _didn’t want you to kidnap anyone_! Now go over there and tell Mycroft the truth!”

Instead, Sherlock crossed his arms and deliberately stopped talking entirely. After another hour of threatening, cajoling, and begging had had no change, Greg decided he didn’t have a choice. He followed the clues left behind by the younger Holmes and within twenty minutes had ‘rescued’ the boy. The ‘kidnappers’ had conveniently disappeared and, with a hint of smugness at being the center of attention, the twelve year old said he didn’t know who they were and they wore masks, so he had no idea who had taken him.

“Very well done, Gregory,” Mycroft commented to him as they watched the Prime Minister bundle his son into a car and everyone began to disperse. He was _not_ looking forward to the paperwork that he’d have to do that would end up keeping him in his office until two in the morning. Coming home at that hour to an empty flat after three months of being divorced was depressing.

“Thanks, but I didn’t really do anything,” he said, but he wasn’t feeling particularly enthused. His success, the praise he was receiving from Mycroft, was false because it had all been set up. He felt… _dirty_ , like he needed a shower. He didn’t want to do it like this and he began to wonder if he should ask Sherlock to stop. He appreciated the enthusiasm that the other man put into it, but…

“…Are you all right?”

He blinked, finally looking at the taller man. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Then…shall we postpone our meeting? I am aware that I promised to show that small café, but sadly I haven’t had any free time to arrange it before now.”

“No, definitely not. Let’s go now. Anything to avoid the paperwork,” he added with a smile.

“Good.” Like a gentleman, he held open the door to his car and with a bit of hesitation, Greg slid in. The trip to the café wasn’t far, which was good because he really was feeling exhausted. It was nine at night, who drank coffee at this time of night, but he wouldn’t ever turn Mycroft down. Thankfully the man guided him to a small corner booth and Greg didn’t even realize that he’d ordered a coffee for both without even his input. Ah well, not like he cared. He was too tired to care. Besides, whatever he picked was probably going to be good.

“You’re sure you’re all right? You seem to be…depressed. We found the boy unharmed.”

“Cases involving children always do this to me, even if it’s a happy ending,” he said truthfully. “It…bothers me when adults involve children in their problems.”

As the coffee was placed in front of them, Greg took a sip and his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “This…is amazing, Mycroft.”

“Isn’t it, though? It is probably some of the best coffee I have ever had.”

He sighed, leaning back against the booth and relaxing, feeling his muscles drain as he sat next to the younger man. They talked about unimportant things and he couldn’t help thinking that he felt the most relaxed he had been in _years_ …

Greg felt his whole body jerk awake as if someone had set off an alarm right into his ear. “What—” He flailed a bit and there was a grunt. Finally it sunk in that he was being carried and then gently sat down on a bed. “…Mycroft?”

The elder Holmes finally came into view as he blinked his eyes repeatedly, but it felt as if someone had dumped sand into them. “Go back to sleep, Gregory.”

“When…”

“You fell asleep against me in the café. I’m sorry to have kept you up so late. I didn’t realize you were so exhausted.”

He tried to sit up, but Mycroft pushed him back down and began to tug off his shoes. “Need to go back to work, get the paperwork…”

“That can wait until morning. You need to sleep.”

“...Please don’t tell me you carried me out of the café and to the car.”

“Did you expect I had Anthea do it?”

He moaned in embarrassment, hearing Mycroft chuckle as he gently manhandled him out of his jacket and set it on a nearby chair. As if he’d been there a million times before, he pulled out some of his pajamas from his dresser and set them on the bed with a moment of hesitance. As if steeling himself, Greg watching quietly, he resolutely removed his tie and then his shirt. Was it his tired brain imagining that those fingers lingered a bit on his chest before pulling on the top of his nightwear? “Do you object?” he asked quietly, glancing at his trousers.

Greg shook his head and blessed everything that he was so sleepy that he didn’t react in arousal as he felt Mycroft remove his slacks. He left his boxers on, pulling the soft cotton pants up and then tucking him into bed. “Good night, Gregory,” he whispered, touching the detective’s salt and pepper hair before letting himself out. Greg fell asleep with dreams about the man’s touch.

-0-

“It’s Mycroft’s birthday today.”

“Really?” Greg looked up from his place on Sherlock’s sofa.

“Yes.”

“I should get him something then.”

John’s arrival in the room from the kitchen made him miss the look on Sherlock’s face. “I know exactly what you should get him for his birthday. This I _guarantee_ will make things impossible for Mycroft to ignore and you’ll get what you want.”

“Really? What is it?” he asked as John handed him a cup of tea. He took a sip, eyebrows drawing down in confusion when he saw the doctor mouth the words ‘I’m sorry’.

“You,” was the last he heard from Sherlock’s lips before he felt woozy and passed out.

There was only a mild headache as he woke, letting out a soft moan of confusion. He was cold and he shivered, but whatever he was lying on was like a heavenly cloud wrapped in silk. Things began to flood back to him and his eyes snapped open. It was hard to miss Mycroft standing next to the bed, staring at him with a blank face. The second thing he noticed was that he was stripped down to his boxers and when he made to sit up, he realized he was handcuffed to the bed. _Handcuffed to the bed_. _His own handcuffs!_ A ribbon had been hung around his neck with a note attached to it.

Slowly, silently, Mycroft set down his briefcase and umbrella, reaching out and picking up the note, noting the unrestrained fury in Greg’s eyes. He couldn’t say anything because there was a gag in his mouth, but he would _kill_ Sherlock for this. Just kill him.

A ginger eyebrow rose and that smooth, sexy voice said, “Well, isn’t this interesting.” Blue eyes flickered to him, looking him up and down. “It says, ‘Happy Birthday, Mycroft. Please enjoy me as you see fit as your present.’ On the back, it adds, ‘I do mean anything’.”

Mycroft folded the note and set it on the desk with a long-suffering sigh. “I highly doubt that you tied _yourself_ to the bed, so let me hazard a guess: Sherlock. It is, after all, his handwriting. He wasn’t even _trying_ to hide it. I shall have to reprimand Anthea, because he never would have gotten in here with you without her help.” With efficient movements, he released Lestrade and the detective bolted out of bed, murder on his mind. He yanked the gag, a silk handkerchief, out of his mouth.

“That _son of a bitch_! Yes, it was Sherlock and this time he’s gone too far! I put up with the rest of it, I suffered through whatever plans he thought of, but going so far as to _drug me_ and tie me up here is the last straw!”

In his anger, he didn’t see the way Mycroft moved, how he carefully asked probing questions. “What other plans?”

“The other plans! His _genius_ plans of _knocking me out_ and locking me in a room with you! Of actually bribing the Prime Minister’s son into going along with that kidnapping farce to make us work together! I swear to god, I regret the day I ever walked into that flat and asked him for help!”

“Help with what?”

That question splashed cold water on his anger and he realized that Mycroft had walked closer to him in a predatory manner. “Uhh…”

“Gregory, _what_ did you ask him? Do confirm what I have already begun to suspect since the kidnapping of the Prime Minister’s son. I would like to hear it from your own lips.”

“I…might have asked…him for help…getting a date with you… Look, it wasn’t supposed to be like this! I just wanted a bit of help getting to know you, to…being able to talk to you and maybe go out on a date or two. I just…”

“You have feelings for me. You were hoping to start a relationship.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t even have your actual phone number. Sherlock is the one person alive who knows you best and I thought… It was a stupid idea, asking him for help.”

He flinched when Mycroft invaded his personal space, but a hand only gently stroked down his neck to the ribbon. “Then I shall have to thank my brother and John, and Anthea of course. He couldn’t have done this without her help.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

He pulled the ribbon apart and Mycroft gave him a predatory smile, gently backing him toward the bed again. “I shall have to thank Sherlock since this is, perhaps, the best birthday present I have ever had.”

Oh, what the hell did he just get into?

-End-


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twelve pages of tooth-cracking fluffy smut for you guys

“Uh…Mycroft…” he muttered, biting his lip and one hand gripping the sheets and his other handcuffed once again the bed.

“Yes?” the man muttered, still leaving little kiss marks on his chest. Mycroft hadn’t gotten undressed yet and only once he’d backed Greg onto the bed and handcuffed him again had he slipped off his jacket. The material of his suit was just as silky as the sheets he was lying on and occasionally he could feel the cufflinks rub against his skin.

“Is, uh…handcuffing me again really necessary?”

“It appears as if you’re enjoying it,” the smug voice replied, a deliberate glance at his hard crotch covered by his black boxers.

“Th-That’s because you’re over top me!” he argued, blushing heatedly.

Mycroft smiled, but while it had affection, there was that smugness of his that made him want to hit him. The smart man had eased over him, not even seeming to care enough to take off his shoes as his lips wrapped around one of Lestrade’s nipples, nipping just a little. He gasped, arching his back a bit.

The sound of Mycroft’s phone ringing interrupted the quiet of the room. Blue eyes glanced at it then back at Greg. “…Don’t,” he muttered weakly.

Ignoring him, Mycroft reached out with a smooth arm to grab it from the bedside table while not moving from his attention to his chest. It was done with such a practiced motion from those capable of multitasking so well. “Mycroft. Ah, Sherlock. Calling to wish me a happy birthday? How sweet. My present?” Greg shook his head frantically, but Mycroft was still smiling and he gasped at a gentle bite mark to his shoulder. “It’s probably the best present you’ve ever given me. I am _sincerely_ grateful. In fact, I’m enjoying it now. …Oh do stop making retching noises. You must have realized I’d be in the middle of something.”

Mycroft sat up, raising an eyebrow as he idly looked over the mess that was Greg Lestrade on his bed. “Over already? _Hardly_. I’m just getting started. I’m the patient one, remember. I can last—” The tall man chuckled as he pulled the phone away from his ear and tossed it back on the dresser. “He hung up. Where were we?”

Those hands were touching his sides and chest again, as if memorizing through touch something he’d wanted for so long. “How delightful to finally have you were I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Mycroft, this… I mean… It’s not just…”

“I’m aware, Gregory. _Believe me_ , I’m aware. I was aware since the night I put you to bed.” Those hands were sliding down his sides now to his hips and gently tugging off his boxers slowly, letting them drop on the floor.

“You were?”

“How many people would you trust, not desire but trust, into your home, into your bedroom, and undress you like that? When we are asleep, or almost asleep, we are at our most vulnerable. You made only one token effort to wake up before going to back to sleep; would you have done that with anyone else? Your trust in me, your feelings for me, were…very obvious, Gregory.” This time the small smile on his face was soft, almost shy, but delighted. “Do believe me when I say that I am truly honored by your feelings.”

He gulped. “And…are they…shared?”

Finally Mycroft leaned in and brushed their lips together. For a first kiss between them, it was a little too chaste but sweet nonetheless. His free hand dove into Mycroft’s reddish hair as he deepened it, paying attention to his lower lip and enjoying the sound of pleasure from Mycroft. “I’m not as smart as you or Sherlock,” he muttered when their lips parted. “I can’t just look at you and see it. I need you to tell me. Remember, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re hardly an idiot, just a bit foolish. Really, asking _Sherlock_ to help you capture me?” Fingers seemed deliberately intent to mess Greg’s hair up. “Your feelings are indeed shared, Gregory, more than can ever actually be said. There just are not enough words for it.”

Before he could do anything more than smile, Mycroft surprised him by abruptly gripping him between his legs. He yelled a bit, arching up into the soft, expert touch. The tall man was watching him intently, seeming to catalogue his every twitch. His hand slowly moved up and down, fingers rubbing at his sack at random. This wasn’t quite like how he’d touched himself and it was infinitely better to have those slim, dexterous fingers holding him.

His other hand slipped down between Greg’s legs, not seeming to care at the slightly awkward angle from where he sat on the edge of the bed next to the detective’s hips. Fingers stroked between his rear and he murmured, “Do you mind?”

Mind? _Mind_? How could he _possibly_ mind when it was Mycroft and he was drowning in pleasure? He frantically shook his head, unable to find the words, and his hazy, dark eyes watched as Mycroft’s hand left, coated two fingers with lube he hadn’t noticed had been put there and returned. Biting his lip, as it had been an awfully long time since he’d done this, Greg opened his legs a little wider in acceptance. Mycroft was, of course, gentle as if he knew just how long it had been. One digit slipped inside slowly and he squirmed.

“You’re more beautiful than I imagined,” the statesman murmured, focusing more attention on stroking Greg’s erection than before.

He was? Beautiful? What man was Mycroft actually looking at, because it couldn’t be Lestrade. He was a grizzled, old copper nearing his fifties in a few short years and yet this handsome gentleman was staring at him as if he was the most beautiful thing in the world. Embarrassed and a bit skeptical, Greg shook his head. “Aren’t you going to…?”

At his gesture at Mycroft’s clothes and the very obvious bulge in his trousers, the other man shook his head and slipped in a second finger. “Not right now. I just want this right now.”

“Want…what?” he wanted and let out a soft yell, arching his hips just a little when Mycroft found his prostate.

“To see you. I’ve dreamed of this, wondering how you would look and act and sound, and I want to see and hear it all first.”

“You act like…this might not happen again…”

“It might not,” Mycroft said, voice sounding a little too entirely reasonable in this situation to be true. “It has been a very long time since I’ve had sex with anyone. You might find that it’s a disappointment and not desire it again.”

Greg stared at Mycroft in shock and as if in retaliation, that thumb deliberately tormented his tip, making him cry out at how good it felt. “Mycroft…bloody…Holmes,” he growled, throwing his head back against the pillows as his pleasure began to mount. A third finger was added and they were thrusting lightly into him now, focusing on hitting his prostate every time. “You…are…an idiot!”

“Am I?”

The voice was light, seemingly confident, but Greg could hear the quiet desperation to believe that he was wrong. Well, he’d make sure that Mycroft got what he wanted. “Yes! Y-You’re exceeding…my expectations…right now!”

“So I will be even better later then?” Now his voice was amused and he pried his eyes open, almost going cross-eyed as he attempted not to release right then and there.

“Yes!” He bit his lip, squirming and thrusting into the hands on him and his fingers even wrapped around the chain of his cuffs. “Sorry…”

“For?”

“Not…getting you…a present.”

Mycroft was smiling indulgently and Greg wondered if he should get used to that expression. A fatalistic sense told him that he’d probably be seeing it a lot. “If I asked, would you give me a present now?”

Now? Weren’t they a tad busy? “Give you…anything you…want.”

“Then for my present, on my birthday…I want you to come.” His fingers pressed down hard on Greg’s prostate, making him scream and thrust up into a suddenly vise-like grip of Mycroft’s hand at the same time as two simple words, “Right now.”

He couldn’t hold out, not after that, not when that was what the man wanted. By the sound of his voice, roughened and sexy and full of desire, he wanted that more than anything and Lestrade gave it to him. He came in thick streams, getting it all over himself and some on Mycroft’s light gray suit, but the man didn’t seem to care. He milked every bit of Greg’s climax out until he was shuddering, falling limp against the bed.

“I have never felt as grateful for a photographic memory before as I am now,” Mycroft said, his tone sounding raw as he stared at Greg. “That will remain as the best sight of my life.”

Greg whimpered. “Please, Mycroft.” Mycroft tilted his head in a silent question of ‘what’. He grabbed that white sleeve in his hand as he said, “Kiss me.”

Warmth flooded Mycroft’s face and he leaned down, releasing his grip on his sensitive cock and held Greg’s face as he kissed him with all the passion he’d been holding back. Squirming a bit as he returned the kiss, he threw his leg out, managing to get it around the man’s hip, trying to push him with his knee to settle properly between his legs.

“Gregory,” Mycroft warned in lust.

“You want it,” he panted. “ _I_ want it.”

“Do you have any idea what it means to give yourself to me?”

“No, not really. Sherlock tried to warn me…but I don’t care. I _love you_ , Mycroft. What’s so hard to understand about that? I don’t care how difficult a relationship is going to be with you because of our jobs and all, I’m willing to work for it, because you’re worth it! You’re amazing beyond a doubt!” Mycroft stared at him so long that he couldn’t help ask, “What?”

“It’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me. Usually it’s Sherlock’s area.”

He smiled, finally managing to get Mycroft to move with his urgings and he was able to wrap his legs around his clothed waist comfortably. “I’ve known both of you for years and admire both Holmes brothers…but _you’re_ the one I love. Doesn’t that count for something?”

A slow smile was slipping over the tall man’s face as he delighted in the fact that he was, for once, preferred over his younger brother. The man who’s life had to live in the shadows and often wasn’t seen was given something he had apparently hadn’t realized he wanted. “I would say you’re a bit biased.”

“So?” he murmured seductively, easing his hips up just a little to rub at Mycroft’s clothed erection. “That a bad thing?”

“…Not at all.”

“Since it’s your birthday, you get to pick.”

“Pick what?”

Greg leaned up and gently nipped at his neck. “How you want it.”

Blue eyes were devouring him hungrily. “I’m afraid I don’t know. There are so many ways that I’m unable to decide.” He shifted and Greg moaned a bit as the feeling of those expensive trousers brushing at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Mycroft had expensive and delightful taste. “You like my suit. You enjoy the thought of me with it on.”

He bit his lip, but nodded. “Not about me, though. It’s about what you want.”

“What I want,” came the lustful growl, “is you writhing in sinful desire.” Without warning, he flipped Greg over and he grunted as he lifted his face from the pillow. That arousal hadn’t flagged at all and Mycroft was deliberately running his clothed hips at his rear. Lestrade whimpered with a flush of arousal, moaning in protest when Mycroft pulled away. He heard two small thumps and looked over to spot that at the very least the tall man had removed his shoes before he was back, leaning over Greg’s back and seeming to deliberately rub his suited body against his heated skin.

Mycroft reached between his legs, stroking his half-hard desire back to full arousal, but this time it wasn’t quite as gentle and exploratory. For a few moments all he could focus on was the touch on him and the feeling of Mycroft rutting into his rear before he heard the sound of clothes rustling. Guessing what had happened, Greg quickly grabbed the lube and handed it back to him.

“Eager, Inspector?”

“Fuck yes,” he whimpered.

He could hear Mycroft’s heavy pants in his ear as the man slicked himself up before easing his tip to Greg’s loosened rear. He could still feel the suit pressing against his thighs, the chain of Mycroft’s pocket watch lightly shocking him with the cold metal along his back, and it distracted him from the burn he felt when he was invaded. God, it had been a long time and he’d forgotten what it felt like. Mycroft was very slow and very gentle despite the fact that he had to be insane with desire by this time. Greg admired the sheer amount of self-control the man had because he feared he would have broken were the situation reversed.

“What are you thinking?” Mycroft whispered in his ear as he eased in and stopped once he was sheathed, letting Greg deal with the sensations, get used to them again.

“That I’m really…in safe hands.”

He could almost hear the blink. “What?”

Greg grinned and looked over his shoulder and admired the stunned look on Mycroft’s face. “Don’t know that I’d have your self-control to restrain myself after how long you’ve held out.”

Not surprisingly, the insanely smart man understood what he was saying in that instant, all the things that he could spend an entire month babbling out to someone else and not sure _how_ to put into words and Mycroft just _knew_. An achingly soft look touched the man’s eyes. “Oh, Gregory, I could never hurt you.” Seeing his own confused look, he ran his fingers through his already mussed salt and pepper colored hair. “It was never a choice. You haven’t done this in a very long time and if I didn’t have self-control, I could hurt you quite badly. Losing self-control is just _not_ an option, Gregory.”

The weight of the words, the eloquence of them that he knew he would never obtain, swamped him. He hadn’t really thought that deeply about it, only that Mycroft’s fortitude was amazing, but it meant so much more to the elder Holmes’. His eyes as their gazes locked whispered ‘You really do love me, don’t you?’ and an answering silent whisper of ‘More than you’ll ever know’ came to him. He hadn’t been sure, until that moment, really sure what was between them.

“…Mycroft, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to scream,” he muttered, throat feeling raw from the realizations.

Sensing what he needed, the desperation he craved for the intimacy to show just how much he felt, Mycroft nodded and pulled back only to push back in. He worked through slow, shallow thrusts at first that were nothing more than torment to Greg. His free hand fisted into the sheets below him, other hand gripping the handcuff once more. One thrust had Mycroft pushing at his prostate again and he let out a soft shout, clenching hard.

“Gregory!” Mycroft hissed. “Don’t tighten unless you want it rough!”

“Thought…you had…self-control,” he teased, squeezing again.

There was a feral growl above him and words snarled in his ears, “Because I could have hurt you before. That time is past.”

Grinning, wanting to give as well as he got, Lestrade clamped down hard enough to see Mycroft biting his lip to avoid letting out a howl of pleasure. “Can’t handle it, Holmes?”

One hand gripped his hip as the other began to stroke Greg in earnest and yelled when suddenly he was shaking under the furor of Mycroft’s thrusts. “Wanted…to savor you…a bit more.”

“Time…for that…later.”

“Yes… There is, isn’t there?” As if the knowledge had really sunk in that there was indeed going to be more in the future, Mycroft stopped holding back. The chain on his watch was like a tease and Greg whimpered as he thought about what they must like look. He wasn’t going to hold out much longer, but it didn’t appear as if his partner minded in the least. He left a deep bruise on his neck, high enough that his collar wouldn’t hide it. The proprietary and possessive mark unraveled him and he came with a sound that he would later refuse to call a scream. “Mycroft!” he whimpered as he rode out his orgasm, clenching and loosening around the flesh inside him without his conscious control. His partner had eased, stopping despite his own need.

“Shhh, it’s all right, Gregory,” he heard whispered in his ears as he held ease him down from his climax.

“Don’t…get it.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“Never…been…that high…before.”

The stillness behind him seemed stunned and he gritted his teeth with a soft moan as Mycroft suddenly began moving again, harder than before. He panted, grinning suddenly, and without arousal clouding his mind, he was able to talk again. “Really, Mycroft. I’ve had sex before, but nothing beat that. Never…had it so good before.”

“Gregory…” The voice tried to put a warning sound in it, but it mostly came out as wrecked and pleading, as if begging for more. He wasn’t sure if it was more pleasure or more praise, but he was willing to give both. So he clenched often and continued to talk.

It wasn’t more than a minute later that he felt Mycroft bury himself as far as he could go and release, a soft grunt his only sound. Lestrade wasn’t surprised he was a quiet one in bed and that was fine with him. He moaned a little in protest as the man eased out and then quickly leaned over him to release the catch on the handcuff.

Greg slumped to the bed, over onto his back, but before he could reach out, Mycroft was gone. For a moment he felt a flash of concern, but statesman was back quickly with a damp cloth and spent an inordinate amount of time make sure that he was clean. He merely watched, noting that Mycroft couldn’t quite meet his eyes and he thought the sudden bout of shyness was adorable. Only when he was absolutely sure that he had gotten it all did Mycroft finally straighten and remove each and every layer of clothing.

When he made to sit up, Mycroft gestured for him to stay put. He pulled on a robe and carefully lifted Greg to remove the sheets and discard them in a hamper, leaving the room only to return with new ones. Once again he gently manhandled the detective where he wanted him and he let him. Something about this made Mycroft want to take care of him and if it made the elder Holmes happy, then he wasn’t going to argue.

Only when he was sure that everything was taken care of did Mycroft slide into the bed next to him, pulling the sheets over them so they didn’t get cold. They stared at each other over the distance, Greg wondering what was appropriate. Both Mycroft and Sherlock had an _issue_ about people touching them; he’d seen the way Sherlock had reacted the first time John had even grabbed his shoulder. He was better now, almost seeming to enjoy it, but John was just one person. What about Mycroft? He was so put together, so contained… Could he be that ‘one person’?

The statesman made no attempt to move so it was up to him and he finally eased over and put his head on Mycroft’s chest with a confidence he didn’t feel. Only when that long arm wrapped around his shoulder and chest did he actually relax and smile. “Happy birthday, Mycroft,” he murmured.

He felt Mycroft’s fingers of his other hand dive into his hair, holding him tightly for a moment and a deep breath as he soaked in his scent. “…Thank you, Gregory,” he whispered back. “It truly is the best birthday I have ever had.”

“Can’t say that yet.”

“Why not?”

He looked up and their eyes met. Ignoring how sappy it sounded, he grinned and said, “There’s a lot more birthdays coming up to top this one.”

That lovely smile touched Mycroft’s lips. “Dear Gregory, believe me no future birthday can ever hold a candle to this one.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is this birthday that I realized I now have all that I ever wanted in my entire life, and that’s you.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t _try_ to top it every year.”

“And I will look forward to it.” That happy smile became somewhat smirk-like. “Do remind me to thank Sherlock for his help.”

“Only if you promise to let me be there when you do.”

“Absolutely.”

-End-


End file.
